


Hold

by sessile



Series: Rope [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Burnplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Rough Body Play, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sessile/pseuds/sessile
Summary: Things go further.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: Rope [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916128
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	Hold

“Tim.”

Armie turns immediately around when he hears someone call Tim like that.

He quickly locates one of the producers and him speaking together, frowns. They’re standing too close together—or rather, the producer is. Tim is politely receiving him, but he’s not as effective as at establishing physical boundaries as Armie is. Armie very much wants to go over there and do it for him.

Instead, he tries to focus on his own conversation. He keeps Tim in his sight lines, though, for the rest of the night. 

-

“You’re quiet.” Tim’s head is lolling on the head rest; he seems tired but tipsy. 

“Yeah.”

-

It’s not until they get fully in the house when Armie grabs Tim up by his jacket and nearly hauls him bodily to the bedroom. 

“Armie—the fuck—”

Armie virtually throws Tim onto the bed and starts shucking off his own clothes. 

Tim turns over to look at him, starts to smile slyly, and Armie’s not having it: he strides over and pins Tim to the bed by his neck. 

He knows jealousy is not a good look on him nor does he have any cause for it—but still. He looms over Tim, who’s looking back at him, a little stunned, but running his hand up and down his arm. 

“This how you want to do it tonight?” Tim asks him quiet, trying for something inviting. Armie cuts off his air instead. Watches Tim’s eyes widen and him trying to gasp but can’t. 

“Get all the way on the bed and get your clothes off,” Armie tells him, and lets go. 

He gets the rope they’d left lying around, forgotten about, but he is sure as fuck remembering it now. Tim’s naked when he gets back, and he immediately grabs one of his wrists to put at the headboard. 

“Give me your other hand.”

Tim complies, eyes wide and watchful, and Armie starts tying him up in something quick and dirty; he’ll probably have to cut Tim out of it later. Right now he needs to fuck him until he can’t speak. 

He gets the rest of his own clothes off and fishes the lube out of the nightstand; he can hear Tim’s breathing quicken at that. 

He kneels on the bed himself, gets situated below Tim, slinging his legs over his thighs. 

“You’re gonna take my cock now, you understand?”

Tim nods quickly. 

“Say it.”

Tim takes a small, sharp inhale, and he’s already breathing hard. “I’m gonna take your cock,” he says, breathy and low. 

Armie pops the cap of the lube, not looking away, and gets to work. 

-

Armie fucks him within an inch of his life. He wants him to sob. He wants him to beg.

He wants Tim to tell him, “ _Whose cock is in you right now?_ ”

“ _Yours—_ oh, _fuck—_ ”

“ _Who does it belong to?_ ”

“ _Armie—_ ”

He fucks into him harder until he gets the answer he wants.

“ _It’s mi_ _ne—it’s mine—fuck! Oh, fuck—!_ ”

He gets right in Tim’s ear and tells him, “ _I’m fucking yours, and you’re fucking mine, and you’re not gonna fucking forget that, do you understand?_ ”

“ _Yes! Fuck, God—I need to come, make me come—_ ”

He kisses Tim, hard, and fucks him until they’re both beyond thought, beyond speech, until everything in his head just melts away.

-

He’s tempted to leave Tim strapped to the bed for a while longer, because he’s a fucking sight: covered in his own come, Armie’s come leaking out of him, bound and barely coherent. He compromises by keeping Tim tied up until he’s cleaned him off. 

Tim’s eyes are still closed by the time he gets around to cutting him loose, his breathing more even and still. Armie bends down and licks off the sweat at his temple; Tim makes a small noise at this. 

“Covers, Tim.”

Tim makes another faint noise, and Armie goes to squaring things away to give him time to get under the blankets. By the time he comes back, Tim is slowly crawling under the sheets and Armie sweeps in behind him. 

He bundles Tim tight to him and buries his face in his neck. He can’t get Tim close enough to him; he wants to bury him in himself. He settles for being able to touch him all over, goes to sleep. 

-

Tim looks at him, a little warily, the next day. 

“You were in a mood last night.” 

Armie tries to ignore him. He gets like that sometimes; everyone had a good time, no one needs to talk about it. 

“Was there something bothering you?”

Not something, _someone_ —Tim. It’s always Tim; he gets under Armie's skin and he doesn’t know what to do half the time. 

“Armie?”

He looks over at him, and there must be something in his face because Tim stops short and furrows his brow. 

“Are you mad at me?”

He sighs, tries to soften whatever must be there. “No, Tim, of course not. You didn’t do anything.”

He just lets people get too close to him; he can see that everyone wants him—

Armie flexes his hand, sets down the knife he was using. Tries to think about nothing. 

Tim is coming up to him, wraps his arms around him; Armie sags a little, holds onto him back. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right? If something’s bothering you. I won’t mind.”

Armie feels the reverberation of Tim’s voice through him, can pick up the light scent of his hair drifting up at him. Tim’s body is solid under his arms, but he feels like he can feel every bone in him. 

He always wants Tim. Always. Always. He can’t have him always, people aren’t meant to do that, but he wants to spend all day making love to Tim, making him come, having him crying out in his ear. It never seems like enough. 

“I know, Tim,” he says quietly. He kisses the side of his face, lets him go. 

-

He bears down on Tim the next time they’re in bed, holding him down with one hand around a wrist and the other clamped around his mouth. He wants to feel Tim struggle against him. 

Tim does—grips onto his wrist, his body writhing under him, trying to get enough friction to come. Armie closes his eyes and takes in every muffled whine he makes under his hand. 

He can’t get enough of their cocks sliding together—Jesus, he feels so good—he wants to stay forever like this—

He ignores the bite of Tim fingers into his hand, until it starts to hurt, until Tim’s hand becomes a fist and knocks hard against his shoulder.

He opens his eyes to see Tim’s own, wide and upset. He immediately sits up, gets his hands off him. 

“Tim, what?” he asks, panting. 

Tim is staring at him, and the wariness from earlier has only deepened. 

“It was starting to hurt,” Tim tells him. 

Armie’s stomach sinks at this. “Fuck, Tim... I’m sorry.”

“What is going on with you?” Said with a mixture of worry, concern, and pointedness. 

He stares at him. He doesn’t have an answer, he never quite has an answer when it comes to how he feels sometimes around Tim. All he knows is it can be unbearable. 

Tim is splayed out before him, propped up on his elbows, miles of pale skin reflecting the light of the moon outside. He just wants to get his hands on him again. 

“I don’t know,” he says simply, and lost. 

-

He tries to make it up to him. Treat him like a prince, do whatever it is he wants to do for the day, all patience and ease. 

It doesn’t seem to work. He tags along to Tim’s excursions to some shops, to a walk in a nearby park, to cones from a stand. Tim is quiet beside him the whole time. 

Tries to sling an arm around his shoulder, to no effect. People pass by, and Armie watches them, catches the looks of a particular kind of awe whenever someone finds Tim really, really beautiful and it shocks the hell out of them. He knows it well; he feels it all the time.

He wonders if it leaves them helpless, too. 

-

When they get back, Tim asks him, “Hey, can you sit down?” 

A wave of dread washes over him; he’d really fucked up, so now they have to talk. He reluctantly takes a seat on the couch. 

Tim comes over and stands before him, looking down at him for a moment, and Armie waits for the admonishment, or whatever, to come. 

Instead, Tim comes to straddle him and sit squarely in his lap.

Armie inhales a little sharply at this; Tim reaches down and grabs one of his hands, and brings it up to place it over the entirety of his neck, looking down at him all the while. 

“Tim—?”

Tim is holding his hand to his neck. “What do you want, Armie?”

“What—”

Tim settles in a grind on his lap, and now Armie’s heart is starting to race. 

“What do you want from me?”

He lolls his head a little in the grip he’s created out of Armie’s hand, arches his back some, slowly changing into a complete presentation of himself. For him. 

Armie tightens his hand on his neck, to the point where it makes Tim gasp, but Tim doesn’t break eye contact with him.

“ _What will you give me?_ ” Armie asks, looking up at him, whispering and in awe. 

“ _Everything._ ”

-

He gets Tim tied up again, to the headboard, but right this time, with a proper knot. 

Tim’s eyes are glittering in their fervor, and Armie tells him, voice catching in his throat, “I’m gonna wreck you.”

He means it. There is something fierce to the point of howling that comes up when it comes to Tim, and it has always sought to fight its way out since day one. 

“This is going to hurt—do you understand?” The words come out in a shaky, thready whisper. 

Tim simply nods at him, avidly watching him. 

And he tests his point, with a long, solid rake of his nails down the entire length of Tim’s front. Tim groans softly at this, arching under it. His hand doesn’t stop, though; he drags it down to grip onto Tim’s balls. He watches Tim’s face turn hesitant to agonized as he slowly gets a solid, deep clamp on them and Tim finally emits a low and pained cry. 

He sees tears start to form in his eyes, knows he won’t be satisfied until there’s more. 

Tim doesn’t look away.

-

He works Tim over. 

He does get his tears, and more; Armie sees how he’s marked up his back, runs his face along it, dragging his teeth in there, too. 

The only thing close, though, to ravaging his cock into Tim’s slight frame was getting the chance to give him a full-force slap across the face. 

Armie was probably pretty far gone himself at that point, he had Tim sitting up but with his hands still bound, and it just came out: “Can I—?” He held Tim’s chin in his hand and had a hand at his face and by this point Tim’s eyes were glazed over from everything they were doing. And Tim simply nodded yes and Armie reared back and slapped open-handed and hard across the face. 

Tim’s noise at that was loud and deep and gone, and Armie immediately soothed the sting with a long glide of his tongue, and he soon had to start fucking Tim after that. 

And now Tim’s completely pliant beneath him, covered in red marks and scratches. Armie secretly hopes some of them will stay for a while, some forever. 

He was here. He was here first, and he was going to be here last. 

Armie buries his face in the back of Tim’s neck, licks along one mark he’d made earlier, from a hard, near feral bite, and kisses it softly. 

-

He keeps Tim bundled the next day, tends to him. He’s moving slow anyway, and Armie figures he’s not supposed to feel as satisfied about it as he does, but he does. 

He doesn’t even have the words to express what this fulfilled for him, in him. He can only show it with gentle kisses at Tim’s hairline, murmured words of affection into his ear. 

_You’re mine, and now you feel it_.

_You’re the only who makes me feel this way._

_I’m yours._

Tim does tell him back, one time, somewhere between rest and waking, “ _You’re mine,_ ” his lips seeking out his own. Armie obliges with a soft kiss, nuzzles his forehead along his.

-

“Your turn,” Tim tells him later.

He looks at Tim sharply at this, wonders what exactly he means. 

“I have an idea.”

And like all of Tim’s ideas, especially when it comes to this, there is immediate hesitation and worry. Because Tim, despite everything, always asks a little bit more than he’s ever thought to give. Asks for that one step over the line, and he doesn’t know how Tim gets this out of him, only that he’s left poleaxed and needing more. 

“We’re going to need to prep you first.”

Now he’s _really_ concerned. “Is it going to hurt?”

“No. Not at first.”

-

Tim sits himself on the bathroom counter as he does this. 

Armie has maybe shaved his chest down about one or two times in his life; it felt ridiculous, it was a pain in the ass to grow back in, and the effect was minimal. But they weren’t doing it this time for looks. 

Tim is quietly intent as he does this, trying not to nick him. He tries to stay still so he doesn’t, either, especially when he travels around the more sensitive parts of his body. 

“Lift your chin up.”

“... you’re going to go that far up?”

“No, probably not, but just in case. Besides,” he says, washing off the razor in the pool of water on the sink, already thick with his hair (he hopes it doesn’t clog the drain), “I like how you look clean-shaven.”

He smiles a little at this. “Ditto.”

“Something wrong with my mustache?”

“You can grow one?”

“Smart move to make jokes at my expense while I’ve got a blade at your neck.”

He’s joking, Armie knows he’s joking, but he still can’t help his sharp inhale at that. Tim just tongues his teeth with a slight smile and eyebrow arched, eyes on his work. 

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“It’s true. You’ll be the death of me.”

Tim wipes down the skin over his carotid, kisses him right on his pulse. “Ditto.” Licks there, too, for good measure, and Armie tightens his grip on the counter, and on Tim’s leg. 

“Are you done yet? Because I’m starting to get hard here.” He reaches for Tim’s hand and places it right over his cock for emphasis. 

Tim breathes a slight laugh, gives him a soft stroke. “Oh, you’re not going to be doing anything with that for a while. Not until I’m done,” Tim tells him, kissing lightly the deep frown on his face. 

-

He watches Tim go about lighting a series of candles, collected on the nightstand. They only had a couple of old ones in the house, in case of a need for emergency light, so Tim had gone and bought a chock-full more—long, tall, and thick pillars. 

“How many do you plan to use on me?” he asks, with not a small amount of consternation. 

Tim shrugs, that fucking maddening slight smile on his face. “As many as I want before I want to fuck you.” 

He is highly, highly tempted to just grab Tim from behind and fuck him into the mattress. Not like they both wouldn’t enjoy that. 

But Tim did give him something important the other night. He’s not sure if this returns the favor, but it’s what Tim wants. And he’s always been a bit helpless to what Tim wants. 

He sees one long mark that’s still on Tim’s back, watches it curve as his muscles flex with his work, and contents himself with that. 

-

Tim has him tied up a bit strangely this time. 

He’s sitting up a bit, some pillows helpfully supporting his back, with each arm extended toward either end of the headboard and tied off at the wrists. A very relaxed crucifixion pose. 

Tim doesn’t start with the candles first, either, just settles himself in his lap and content to make out for a while, which Armie is more than happy to go along with. Tim’s hands restlessly smooth across his skin everywhere—his arms, his sides, down his legs—and Armie loves feeling him, loves feeling the tongue he feeds him. 

For a second he thinks that they’re just going to go ahead and fuck like this, as he feels Tim eagerly rubbing his hardening cock against his stomach and equally eagerly grinding back on Armie’s own. And Armie pushes back into him, and just thinks about coming with a lap full of Tim, panting harshly into his mouth. 

“Hey—” Tim suddenly starts to tell him, startling him a little and making him open his eyes “—I’m gonna get one of the candles now, okay?”

No, not okay, not with Tim’s wet and reddened mouth two inches away from his face. He wants to tell him to fuck the candles and just fuck him instead, but Tim is sitting there calmly, waiting for an answer.

He glances up at Tim, and for someone he’s fucked many, many times, the look on his face is somehow too penetrating, and he has to look off. There’s a knot in his stomach when he tells him, “Okay.”

He sees out the corner of his eye Tim nod, and he reaches over to the nightstand and carefully brings back one of the lit candles to them. The candlelight is fucking gorgeous on Tim’s skin, illuminating the paleness into a burnished glow, and he wants to lean forward and get his mouth on that invitingly lit expanse of neck in front of him. 

Instead, Tim says his name—“Armie”—causing him to look up at him, and in that moment Tim simply tips the candle over and spills a pool of it all across the front of his chest. 

Armie yells straight at him. Doesn’t break eye contact, somehow, because he knows Tim probably wants it, wants to see him, and he somehow needs to see Tim, too. 

“ _Fuck—”_ he grits out—the hurt isn’t unbearable, but _fuck,_ he’s feeling every part of it, especially as some of it trickles down past his navel and therefore closer than he wants toward his cock. 

And while he’s watching, Tim simply does the same to his own skin. 

This makes Armie jump—he doesn’t know why—it’s somehow more shocking than anything they’ve done—and he watches Tim, stunned, who’s baring his teeth a little and hissing, but still possessed of too much sangfroid for the whole thing. 

“ _Tim—what the fuck—_ ”

Tim just spills a line of wax across the breadth of Armie’s chest, and this finally makes him struggle in his bonds, especially as some of it hits one of his areolas, and he grunts low and harsh in his teeth. 

Tim is leaning over to grab another candle, and for some fucking reason he wants him to stop, and he winds up yelling “Tim, _no—_ ” when he moves to pour some on himself again. 

“ _What?_ ”

“Tim, no—please don’t—”

Tim knits his brow a little at him, tilts his head a little in curiosity, and asks him, “ _Why is it you’re the only one who gets to hurt me?_ ”

And for some fucking reason, this is the thing that gets Armie to well up and for a tear to escape his eye. 

“ _I’m not trying to hurt you—_ ” which was a literal, bald-faced lie; he did exactly the opposite the other night—

“What did you ask me before—”

“ _What_ —”

“You asked me what was I willing to give, and I told you what?”

“ _I_ —”

“What did I tell you, Armie?”

“ _Everything, you said you’d give me everything—_ ”

“Well, now I want the same from you—” And Tim leans back on him, baring himself long before him, and tips a whole thick line of wax on himself from length of his neck all the way down past the side of his own cock, some of the wax winding up to drip down onto Armie’s stomach. A burst of air comes out of Tim, like he’d been holding his breath, and he pants a sharp, deep moan on each breath. “What do you want, Armie?”

“ _You—fuck—you, fucking you, all I’ve ever wanted is you—_ ”

“And this is how you’re gonna get me—” Tim tips the candle all the way on its side, the flame climbing high, exposed, and it melts the sides of the candle and Tim brings it close enough to his chest to where it starts to melt the hardened wax there and—

“ _Tim—Jesus fuck—!_ ”

Tim’s breathing is frantic as he holds the flame right near his skin, and Armie knows it’s burning him, it must be hurting him—

He jerks the candle away, apparently having had enough, and Armie can see the angry red mark on his skin—

He shoots his eyes up at Tim, who’s staring right back, breathing harsh and low, and making small wounded noises in his throat.

“ _Tim—please, fuck—get on my cock—_ ”

He’s so hard. He’s so incredibly hard and he doesn’t know why, but it’s just never fucking enough—

Tim nods at him, breathing hard, and Armie can see he’s ready, too, to the point of his own cock starting to well with precome. “Okay,” he says, grabbing another candle and spilling wax right where he’d burned himself, shouting when it hits him. 

“ _Oh, God—oh, fuck—_ ” Armie stares, gasping, at the wax marring Tim’s body and his hips jerk restlessly into the air; he wants him to stop, he wants him take his cock, he wants him ruined, he wants, he wants—

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in breaths through his teeth; he can’t stand seeing him like this and he wants so much fucking more—

“ _Tim—Jesus—I need to be fucking in you,_ please—”

“ _Okay, okay_ —” Tim tells him tightly, reaching over but not quite opening his eyes until he needs them to find the lube on the nightstand. 

Tim gets them ready quickly, efficiently, slicking down Armie generously with no preliminaries, so Armie just has to deal with the shock of the cool liquid on his hot and pulsing cock with a low cry; he lubes himself as much as he can on his own. 

Tim lowers himself solidly on his cock, and Armie has to grimace into himself as his whole body clenches; he's pulling hard on his bonds to no avail. Tim moving him hard and fast inside him is simultaneously the worst and the best thing ever, because Armie wants, needs, to come right fucking now just so he doesn’t lose his fucking mind, and his eyes are shut tight, so he isn’t prepared when a pool of wax hits his chest again. He damn near _screams_ and his eyes fly open—Tim has spilled it on them both, and Tim is breathing hard and loud, his mouth dropped open and heavy-lidded eyes on him, and he looks like he’s about to come any second—

“ _Oh, God, oh, fuck—come on my cock, please fucking come on my cock—_ ”

Tim just screws his eyes shut and starts stripping his cock, and it’s not long before he jerks with gritted yell, and Armie swears when Tim’s come hits him it’s as hot as the wax had been. When Tim finishes wringing it all out of himself, he blindly grips both hands onto Armie’s shoulders and fucks hard onto his cock, both of them gasping loud, until Armie has to curl deep into himself with a pained bellow, because it feels like Tim practically tears his own orgasm right out of him and he’s coming so hard it feels like it slices straight up through his balls and right through the rest of him. 

Armie is left making strained, wounded noises as he comes and comes into Tim. 

-

For a long time, Armie can only hang slumped in his bonds, Tim draped on him, panting hard onto his neck and shoulder. He barely feels aware of himself. 

Eventually, eventually, he feels Tim peel himself off, and the bed shifting, and then his arms dropping one by one as Tim pulls free the ropes around his wrists. Slowly, he comes to sit up a little and put his head in his hands, pressing hard there and groaning low. He feels like half his soul had been ripped out of him. 

He feels Tim drop himself heavily on the bed, and then one of his arms and one of his legs sling themselves over the lower half of his body. 

Eventually, Armie has to mumble to himself from behind his hands, “ _Jesus fucking Christ_.”

He faintly hears Tim make a noise, the sound of it reverberating near his feet. He cracks his eyes open to see Tim splayed out, half on him and half on the bed, his head near his ankles, and bits of wax flaked off everywhere, some still stuck to Tim. And of course their come over everything.

He looks down at Tim, and there’s a feeling of wanting to strangle him mixed completely with wanting to gather him up tightly to himself. Fucking Tim. Only him. 

“Hey,” Armie says, his throat hurting a little, knocking his foot against him, “help me clean up a little so we can go to bed.”

Tim doesn’t move, which he doesn’t blame him entirely for, but there’s no way he’ll be able to get to sleep like this. He slides out from under Tim and comes to stand at the side of the bed, cracks the wax still left off of him, grabs a discarded shirt to mop himself up and sweep everything off onto the floor. He does the same with Tim, who eventually decides to get with the program and at least crawl into bed. Armie soon crawls in after him, with a slight groan as he settles because some of the pain is starting to set in. 

They fall asleep somewhere like that. 

-

Neither of them wants to move the next morning. 

It took something out of him—probably half his store of endorphins and maybe even a year off his life. He feels gross and oversensitized, and Tim seems intent to go back to snoring into his pillow. He wants them relatively back to normal so he prods Tim to get the fuck up so they can at least shower and change the sheets and not be wallowing in their bodily fluids and bits of wax. 

“Armie, just go the fuck back to sleep,” Tim grumbles, unmoving. “Come spoon me, please.”

Armie rubs his face, hard, because that’s exactly what he’s going to wind up doing because it’s fucking Tim and he’s just utterly fucking helpless apparently to anything he asks of him. 

He gets up right behind Tim and pulls him close, buries his face in his neck. Tim pulls at the arm around him, laces his fingers with his own. 

“Thank you,” he hears Tim mumble. “For everything.”

He holds onto Tim tighter. He feels himself getting emotional again—Tim, thanking him, after all they’ve done.

He can’t give enough to Tim, either. It’s no joke—Tim very much has his heart in his hands, and he will hand it over to him a thousand times over.

He closes his eyes, burrows deep. 

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Always.” 

-

When he wakes this time, he’s alone, but he hears Tim moving around in the bathroom. 

He gets up himself to take a leak, and sees with faint amusement Tim inspecting himself in the mirror. 

They really worked him over. Pretty much Tim’s entire torso has some sort of welt or scratch or bite mark. Tim is running a finger along some, wincing at the fresher ones, catches Armie watching him. 

“Admiring your handiwork?” he asks slyly. 

“Admiring yours?” Armie rounds back at him. 

He grins at him, tips some hydrogen peroxide on a towel and starts dabbing at himself. 

There’s a satisfaction, soul-deep, in Armie at seeing him like this. Thank God Tim doesn’t have any work coming up at the moment, or else it was going to be a very awkward conversation with certain parties, but Armie secretly hopes, wants, people to see. They might not know what the markings mean, but he will. 

He catches himself in the mirror, too, his own welt less visually prominent but still a faint brand of pain on his skin. He touches at it, hissing just a little. He wants this to stay and be seen, as well. 

“We really should just get matching tattoos or something. More permanent.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Tim says back to him, wryly, eyebrow arched. 

He watches Tim in the mirror, watching the marks on him shift and undulate as he breathes, as he goes about tending to himself. He looks strangely at peace.

“Do you love me?” he finds himself asking, to Tim’s reflection.

Tim stops and looks at him, brow knitting. “Of course.” His face softens a little. “Do you love me?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “More than I can even begin to say.” He means it, he really does.

Tim turns to him, with a faint, tender smile, and comes to hold him, arms wrapping around tight. Armie winces a little; Tim’s pressing himself right along the length of his welt, and he figures he must be pressing on Tim’s own. 

“Say it now.”

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Tim nuzzles into him, and Armie sees in the mirror the faint mapwork of markings he’d left on his Tim’s back. He presses both hands over them, nearly encompassing the whole pale expanse of his skin, and holds onto Tim tightly.   
  


_Fin_


End file.
